Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Think not because no man sees, such things will remain unseen.

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Well I know the secret places, And the nests in hedge and tree; At what doors are friendly faces, In what hearts are thoughts of me.

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Stars of earth, these golden flowers; emblems of our own great resurrection; emblems of the bright and better land.

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Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest art of all the arts. Painting and sculpture are but images, Are merely shadows cast by outward things On stone or canvas, having in themselves No separate existence. Architecture, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow.

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Welcome, Disappointment! Thy hand is cold and hard, but it is the hand of a friend. Thy voice is stern and harsh, but it is the voice of a friend. Oh, there is something sublime in calm endurance, something sublime in the resolute, fixed purpose of suffering without complaining, which makes disappointment oftentimes better than success!

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There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.

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At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast.

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Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies.

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My own thoughts Are my companions.

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The Laws of Nature are just, but terrible. There is no weak mercy in them. Cause and consequence are inseparable and inevitable.

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In what a forge and what a heat were shaped the anchors of thy hope! Fear not each sudden sound and shock; 'Tis of the wave and not the rock.

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Noble souls, through dust and heat, rise from disaster and defeat the stronger.

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The soul...is audible, not visible.

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Buried was the bloody hatchet; Buried was the dreadful war-club; Buried were all warlike weapons, And the war-cry was forgotten. Then was peace among the nations.

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To charm, to strengthen, and to teach: these are the three great chords of might.

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Fame grows like a tree if it have the principle of growth in it; the accumulated dews of ages freshen its leaves.

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A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood.

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And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.

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Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is they remembrance. Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.

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The atmosphere breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers seem full of welcomes.

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